


Any Death Will Do

by AeonDelirium



Category: 1984 - George Orwell, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dark, M/M, Mindfuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-18 19:15:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2359217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeonDelirium/pseuds/AeonDelirium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ASoIaF/1984 Crossover. Ramsay is an agent of the Thought Police, Theon a prisoner in the Ministry of Love whom the Party believes dead and vaporised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Any Death Will Do

**Author's Note:**

> So I finally did the thing! My apologies – it turned out a lot shorter than originally planned. I'd be willing to explore the subject some more if people want to read it, but it was really difficult to get into.

“I’ve told you everything I know.”  
The cramped quietness of the cell turned even the most mundane sound of overalls sliding over gaunt skin and jutting bones into something intimate, secretive, sickening. Sounds and shapes were too sharp around the edges, all too loud and hard on senses raw from deprivation. Theon trembled as the fabric gathered about his waist, then pooled around his ankles like sickly blue snake skin, leaving him colder than before. Only snakes outgrew their old scales, or so he thought he remembered, vaguely, from another life. In this cell there was no room to grow. In fact it felt like he was shrinking every day.  
  
And then the cell shrank, to the size of an embrace this time, when palms were planted either side of him, flat against the wall with an ugly squelching sound and the acrid smell of sweat, interlaced with musky anticipation. A distressed sigh rose from his throat. Even after all this time, he could not bear the closeness.  
“We’ve been through this.” Ramsay’s voice was a lover’s breath against his throat, like a sound escaped from a forbidden place, carried up here from the memory holes on a current of hot air.  
Sturdy fingers danced lightly over bruised flesh in a mockery of affection, when both men knew they wanted nothing more than to tear, to rip, to punch, to twist and to deform.  
The words were so casual, almost careless, a comment coming from a mouth that had never been put _through_ anything, that still had all of its teeth left, a mouth that opened for food and drink and talk whenever its owner saw fit.  
 _Ownlife,_   Theon thought, his eyes focused on Ramsay’s, _doubleplusungood,_ he thought. _One of these days days they’ll vaporise him._ The idea ignited a small spark of elation somewhere inside his secret heart even as a flat thumb brushed across his bottom lip.  
Ramsay’s face seemed uglier to him than usual, flushed an excited pink. There was a faint smell of wine on his breath, real, red wine, a taste he knew from Ramsay’s stained lips against his own, soft flesh briefly brushing chapped and broken skin before they travelled further south on old familiar paths. They lingered on his throat, then kissed a rib, then found that awful, scarred, unspeakable space between his legs where he had first learned how to _unexist._  
  
The word fell from his lips unbidden, like so many times before.  
“Sexcrime,” he whispered weakly as Ramsay’s warm tongue lapped at his skin and his thighs closed like magnets drawn by their invisible force, “ _doubleplusungood._ ”  
The feeling of Ramsay’s fist connecting with his face and his head hitting concrete was so familiar it was soothing. For half a moment he wished he’d strike again, before the pain took over, blossoming before his bloodshot eyes in shades of scarlet and pink.  
  
Ramsay cocked his head now, pulling him closer again. Theon was used to his casual outbreaks of violence, and so he barely shuddered as the his voice took on a warm tone so unfit for this place it almost hurt. Ramsay brushed a greyish strand of hair from his face.  
“What we did in Room 101 was just for show,” he explained slowly, carefully wrapping his slick tongue around each syllable. His eyes brimmed with something so alien and twisted, so profoundly wrong Theon dared not try and name it. Ramsay smiled. “Don’t you understand?”  
Their bodies collided, sharp bones against synthetic fabric, and Theon despised him for the soft flesh underneath, well-fed and healthy, as healthy as you could be in this wretched place.  
He made a terrible choking sound from deep in his chest that had been intended as a laugh. _Just for show._ How good to know that they had starved him _just for show._ Peeled the skin from his fingers _just for show._  
  
“They’ll shoot me though.” He sounded almost hopeful. It was a good day (or night, or dusk or dawn, _fuck me if I know, fuck me if it matters_ ), his mind fogged enough to fall for his own lie for one laboured beat of his heart. There was some comfort in pretending. “Sooner or later they’ll shoot us all.”  
Ramsay quirked an eyebrow, and it was before he even opened his mouth that Theon spotted his mistake. Another followed suit when he took a step back, and his bare skin hit the cold tiles, forcing a strangled gasp from his lips.  
“ _Us?_ There is no _us,_ Theon.” Ramsay moved closer again, and his body was so invitingly hot it took all the strength Theon could muster not to press up against him and let his meatless bones melt into his embrace like some girl from the prole quarters. He recoiled from the memory. Ramsay added one of his sharp-toothed smiles, and the temptation crumbled away to nothing.  
“There isn’t even a you,” he said softly, and his thumb traced a very sharp and very real collarbone, and Theon’s head swam with the doublethink it implied.  
“After all, you unexist.”  
  
It was difficult sometimes, wrapping his head around the concept of living and breathing, while at the same time knowing he did not exist at all. Ramsay had developed his own methods to try and help him understand, back when he’d still been working to fix his head and heart for the Thought Police, not his own perverse pleasure.  
“Just like that,” he would say, fingering an empty space where a piece of him had once been. “You’re just a phantom limb the Party shed like a stinking old rag. And you’re being forgotten as we speak.” And his hands would move to older wounds, faded white scars that no longer ached.  A part of Theon wanted to claw them open now, make them bleed again to prove that no memory could be erased without a trace, that a man could not simply be _unmade._ But in the end it was easier to yield and spare himself the pain, and _be_ a little less as every day went by. He looked up at Ramsay. And he gave in.  
  
“There’s only me now. And you’re mine.”  
His hipbones fit into Ramsay’s hands, _made for them._ Theon whimpered as the forbidden thought crossed his mind.  
For some time – recalling his own naïveté almost, almost made him laugh – for some time he had let himself believe that Ramsay was rescuing him, that perhaps he was trying to smuggle him out of the Ministry, that he would release him somewhere in the relative safety of the prole quarters once the Thought Police assumed him dead. _Remarkably stupid,_ he thought vaguely as his limp limbs let themselves be moved by Ramsay’s hands, _remarkably stupid even for an agent of Goldstein._  
  
Ramsay’s mouth was on his again then. Seven remaining fingers curled with discomfort.  
Theon marvelled at the coarse ugliness of his face when the man withdrew at last, hovering inches away from him, close enough to smell the food on his breath, good food, Inner Party food. He could smell blood from what must have been a side of beef. And it was making him _ache_ with longing. Real meat, real butter, perhaps even coffee. There was a sharp, hot sting, a bolt of lightning that shot through him. Once more a sense of crippled joy blossomed in his heart when he recognised the feeling to be envy. Anger, even. His body still remembered the things it craved and needed, and he still remembered that they’d been stolen from him. He spotted a crumb of bread on Ramsay’s bottom lip, good, soft white bread, sitting in a grease-slick crease, just waiting for another flick of his tongue. Theon drew in a shallow breath. He realised he still had it in him to hate. The thought frightened and roused him at once. _They should have shot me while my brain was still clean._  
  
He told himself to treasure what thoughts and feelings remained him, to savour every bit of thoughtcrime like a delicious treat. He wanted to die hating Ingsoc. Of course, it wasn’t easy, smiling through broken teeth. He wanted to die hating the Party. It wasn’t easy, cherishing the scalding wave of shame that set his limbs trembling as Ramsay’s hands and lips reclaimed him from Big Brother inch by inch.  He wanted to die the man he had been, wanted to die remembering _Robb,_ he thought with a silent cry as Ramsay forced him to his hands and knees and did things to him that Newspeak had no words for. He wanted to die defiant, he wanted to die full of bitterness and bile, he wanted to … he wanted to die, he thought numbly as Ramsay withdrew and left him, cold.  
Any death would do.


End file.
